


hang, whoreson.

by PrinceOfHope



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Implied Relationships, M/M, Self-Harm, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2018-12-07 18:28:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11629365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrinceOfHope/pseuds/PrinceOfHope
Summary: The cigarette felt awkward in his mouth, the weight of it was off, Sam wasn't used to this. His eyes drifted back towards the moon. His thoughts did too.





	hang, whoreson.

It was late when the padded thumping of Sam's footfalls fell from the bed, lead their way into the bunker's bathroom, through the kitchen, out towards the door. It was always late when he got into trouble, around three in the morning, if someone would beg for an answer. Around three in the morning when he could grip the razor blade between his teeth, stow the pack of half-empty cigarettes he had stolen from the back of Dean's nightstand drawer. Marlboro's Reds. Dean said he liked the way they smelled.

It was cold when he stepped out, only in his boxers and the threadbare shirt he had been sleeping in for years. It was a bit too small on him, and now that he thought about it, he was pretty sure that it was Dean's. Dean, with his passion eyes and the tendency to not notice when things went missing. Like his shirt, his cigs, his brother.

Sam stood against the railing on the bunkers deck, eyes drawn up to the full moon as it hung in the air lifelessly. It brought him back to Mick, the bastard-- his silver nitride glimmering the pale light of the hotel room, Sam's mouth drew cotton at the thought. He hated that night. 

Once he pulled the razor from his teeth, setting in down on the wood in front of him, he got to work fishing about a cig, lighting it up with the cheap lighter Dean had stashed away in the pack. He knew it had been awhile since Dean had smoked, he hadn't smelled the tar on his brother's clothes in so long it almost made him upset. It would add to Dean. More complex, more ritualistic than Sam, Dean. More.

The cigarette felt awkward in his mouth, the weight of it was off, Sam wasn't used to this. His eyes drifted back towards the moon. His thoughts did too. 

He wondered what his next case would be, how long the Men of Letters would give them to recover from their last one. He wondered when Dean would officially join, when Mary was going to come back to them. He wondered about Dean. Thought about how he would look in Sam's too-big clothes, thought about the scars that littered his body and his mind, thought about the heat that lay sleeping in his bed. Sam had best get this over with and soon, before Dean woke up.

But it wasn't as if Dean didn't know what he was doing. It was impossible to miss the butts dropped carelessly to the ground, the cuts neatly lining his palm; Dean wasn't an idiot, after all. 

With a sigh, Sam flicked the bit of ashes that had gathered at the top, and picked the razor back up from the railing. He tilted it over in his hands a few times, feeling the weight, watching himself disappear and reappear in it's reflection before he finally had the strength. 

It hurt, of course it did, everything hurt in this line of work. The metal sliced through his palm with ease, the youngest Winchester working it down until it slid off the man's wrist with a hiss. There it was, that tainted blood. Filthy, crimson, even Crowley had a bit of the man's blood inside of him. It didn't matter with Crowley, it never did. 

But with Dean, Sam wouldn't dare. Strangers blood, that what was inside his brother's body, not the tainted, filthy shit that leaked from his palm slowly. He'd never lead his brother to be tainted, not ever. 

He could feel Dean's presence at the doorway. His palm pulsated. 

"C'mon Sam, gotta' come back in." His voice was groggy, a sort of huskiness attached to his words when he spoke. The older Winchester knew what his brother was doing, it'd take an idiot not to. He was ripping his skin open, wasting all the perfect blood that poured out in the dirt. The thought of Sam going to the waste made Dean want to snarl. Sam had flexed his palm to slow the bleeding, flicked the cigarette to the group, and picked the razor back up before he would turn to face his brother. 

"Sorry," he breathed, just soft enough, just right. Dean loved that tone, that it's-too-late-for-this-Dean tone, where he was tired and worn and thin and Dean wanted to hold him until Sam pushed him away. 

"Don't gotta' be sorry." 

Dean arms encircled the younger's man waist, pulling him tight in a lazy hug that he didn't fight against. Sam took care to keep the biohazard of his hands far from Dean. Dean in his shirt and sleeping-pants, his messy hair and dried-drool mouth. 

"'M not gonna' let anything happen to you again." And Sam could tell that he was tired. So, so tired-- Dean's weight was pressed against Sam's for support, his head dropped so that it rested on the younger man's shoulder. He knew it was an empty promise, they both knew that they didn't have control over what happened to either one of them. 

"I won't let anything happen to you; either," Sam's voice was softer, a sort of coo in the ears of his brother. The younger's eyes slipped shut for a moment, relishing the smell of Dean, of sweat and deodorant and metal; of the spice-sweet scent that made up his brother. It was a pretty thing.

"Yeah.. yeah, ain't gonna' let you get hurt, ain't gonna let you hurt anymore, Sammy. My Sammy.." Dean hummed quietly, and Sam couldn't help but give a laugh. He was a handful, with his broken promises and his sleepy state. Sam wondered who was saving who. 

"C'mon, Dean, let's get back to bed." Sam murmured back, nuzzling his nose into the back of the man's head so he could smell him a bit more, and to rustle Dean from his stupor. The older Winchester grumbled quietly as he stood, green eyes hazy with sleep, and the sight brought a smile to Sam's lips. The older Winchester grabbed the pack of cigarettes infront of them, tossing them on the kitchen counter as he padded back to their room. Sam was left with locking up once again, cleaning himself up before he went back. 

He wouldn't stop, Dean would find him many more nights out there, in the chill with blood dripping down his forearm. But they all needed their release, Dean wouldn't get in the way of Sam's. Because if Sam would crawl back into bed with him, wrap his stupid-long arms around Dean's waist, pull him so tight they'd both be sweating when they woke up, he could live with it. He knew that Sam could, too.


End file.
